


Devil's Bread

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Fisting, M/M, Omega/Omega, Porn, Unrequited Love, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should try it,” he said, afterwards. Sherlock rubbed his fingers together. They felt odd, now, having been inside another person for so long. He thought of Victor, mindlessly begging.</p><p>“I don’t think so,” he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Bread

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are then, at my stab at omegaverse that was supposed to just be fluffy porn, but when have things ever been that simple? The following fic contains porn, more porn, angst, porn, and uh, maybe some plot if you can spot it in there somewhere :D
> 
> Thanks as always go to the most excellent and wonderful ghoulkitten.
> 
> All the usual warnings for the consent issues surrounding Omegaverse, and if you're not sure what that is there is a useful primer [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644). Also a mild warning applies for possible underage sex, depending on the age of consent where you are - characters depicted here are sixteen/seventeen.

It happened in double English.

It came on suddenly, no warning. A rush of liquid heat that started as a quiet tingle on his scalp and in the tips of his fingers, before abruptly pulsing down his spine and making him gasp out loud and grip the edges of the desk. His face felt hot, and he blushed even more with the shame of it. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He looked around carefully. Simon Gardner’s nose was twitching in distaste, Sophie Warwick edged away from him along the desk. Mr Morrison sniffed suddenly from his position in front of the blackboard, eyes darting about the room and settling on Sherlock almost immediately. Sherlock shrank back in his chair, but it was no use; it was ridiculously, stupidly obvious that it was him. His disgusting hormones. His stupid body. Everyone was looking at him now, sniffing loudly. Whispering. _Laughing_. And the worst of it was, he wanted it. Wanted their attention. They were looking at him and he had to force himself not to bare his throat shamelessly. God, how he hated himself.

“Sherlock,” Mr Morrison said gently. Sherlock fought the ludicrous urge to burst into tears, shoving his folder back into his bag and only just restraining himself from moaning at the starbursts of heat each movement triggered in his belly. He stumbled to the nurse’s office and raised a hand to knock, but the door was swinging open already and he was being ushered inside and eased down on the bed. His head was already fuzzy, and this time he couldn’t contain a high, needy little whine at the next shivering wave of heat.

“…supposed to prevent this,” Miss Mantel was muttering, bustling around the office, pulling out gloves, paper.

“Come on, Sherlock,” she said, pushing at his shoulders, “lie back.”

He arched up at the touch, and she jerked her hands away before remembering herself. God, he was disgusting. It wasn’t supposed to happen here. It wasn’t supposed to happen _anywhere_. He was too young for this, it shouldn’t be happening, not _here_. Miss Mantel was murmuring into the phone. He twisted, trying to listen.

“…spontaneous heat… contained within my office… not secure… yes… yes… perimeter checks… transport…”

She moved back towards him, face a mask of concern, and he choked as a fresh spill of thick, desperate _want_ flooded him as she moved closer. He turned to press his face into the papery covering on the bed, trembling with the effort of not moving.

In the end, his father came to collect him. Two hours of shivering and moaning in the back seat of the Land Rover preceded two days which, afterwards, he’d be hard pressed to remember as more than a blur of desperation, of thick, overwhelming want. It was more than enough. He went on suppressants as soon as he’d emerged sticky and sweaty from his bedroom and hadn’t missed a single one in over twenty years.

-

When Sherlock discovered Sappho at the age of sixteen he knew immediately. That was him. He read every translation he could get his hands on, and afterwards Plato, Maupin, Forster.

With the suppressants, especially his own, there weren’t heats. There wasn’t the desperate _need_ ; time didn’t merge into one blur of sticky, hot want. But there was still desire, there was still beautiful Victor with his tumble of red curls and his soft plush lips and his bohemian recklessness that had him pressed up against Sherlock behind the music block, fingers cramped and curling up, up, wet, pressing _in_ and Sherlock took about thirty seconds to spill whimpering into his pressed school trousers. Afterwards, Victor gave him a cigarette and with that Sherlock discovered two things to which he could very easily become addicted.

“I never thought you’d be…y’know,” said Victor, as they lay on the playing fields in the dark, passing a cig back and forth.

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Victor turned his head sideways, eyes dark. “Um. _Queer_ ,” he said, grimacing, like it was a secret. Like Sherlock hadn’t been inside him. Like they didn’t reek of each other.

“Hm,” Sherlock said. Inhaled a stinging, smoke-filled breath.

“You are, aren’t you?” said Victor, his tone suddenly strange. “You’re…I mean…”

Sherlock looked at him.

[Queer: perplexing, odd, curious, unexpected.]

“I suppose so,” he said. “Yes.”

-

He kept the chemical stimulants, and gave up the rest. Nicotine and cocaine made his mind race and his fingers tingle without all the need for sticky, messy _humans_ , especially Alphas, who smelled wrong and got too close and made Sherlock shudder when they breathed their sticky-sickly words into his ear.

“C’mon, gorgeous. You smell so sweet. Shouldn’t go out smellin’ like that if you don’t want someone to stick it in you, yeah?”

A hand on his waist, small but hot and heavy.

“Not interested.” He shoved a little plastic packet into his jeans.

“Don’t smell like it to me, sweetpea.” Hot, snuffling breath on the back of his neck. He shuddered, whirled to push the Alpha off him. She was small, but well muscled, and kept her grip firm on his waist, pulling him close and pushing herself against his leg. He could feel her cock, thick against his upper thigh.

“Just let me,” she crooned, and her eyes were wide and dark, mouth wet with licking, “let me have you, eh lovely? I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”

He swallowed on the rise of disgust in his throat and managed to twist out of her grip.

“Fuck. Off.”

He was almost shouting, and people were looking, and the Alpha stepped back from him, shocked.

“Jesus, get over yourself,” she said. “You little fucking tease.”

Sherlock clenched his fist. Clenched his teeth. She looked for a moment like she might move back towards him, but then there was a hand on his forearm and she backed away, dropping her head.

“You alright?”

Another Alpha, bonded. Sherlock turned to glare at him. Ah, a policeman. “Don’t _touch_ me. Am I suddenly public property?”

“Ah, sorry,” said the Alpha, jerking his hand back. “Sorry. Forgot myself.”

“You’re always _forgetting yourselves_ , aren’t you?” snapped Sherlock. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just a poor defenceless Alpha who simply couldn’t help myself from doing whatever I feel like!”

The policeman was starting to look pissed off. Good. Hopefully he’d leave; sooner rather than later would be excellent.

“Go away,” said Sherlock, when he showed no sign of removing himself.

“No. Listen, are you really alright? I can walk you home if you like.”

Sherlock sighed. “Look,” he glanced at the name badge, “…Lestrade. I am perfectly capable of handling myself. I do not need an _escort_ home and especially not from a twice unbonded police officer looking for a quick fuck and a _cuddle_. Go. Away.” He made a shooing motion, and, when that didn’t work, turned and walked in the opposite direction.

It took Lestrade several seconds to stop gaping like a dying fish and run after him. “At least take my number,” he panted, holding out his card. “Here. Take it. I’ll follow you home if you don’t.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath through his nose, took the card and very deliberately put it in his wallet. He gave Lestrade what he hoped was an acquiescent smile, not bothering to hold it before turning and striding off towards home. He suspected that if he looked back, Lestrade would be standing, staring.

-

It was watching the news that reminded him he had the number. He’d been thinking, thinking, unsure how long he’d been there. The time was 6.45 but the date was unclear. A quick check of the BBC news confirmed he’d been in almost the same position for over 18 hours; his body needed fuel, and his toes were numb.

_The kidnapping of three children from a flat in Crouch End is thought to have occurred in the early hours of Saturday morning. The children, who are 3, 4 and 6, were discovered to be missing this morning when their mother, Mr Andrew Reid, discovered their beds empty and their rooms in disarray. He had this to say:_

_“I just want them back. Please. Whoever’s taken them. I don’t know why you’ve done this…I just want my babies back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”_

_Two suspects have been taken in for questioning, and witnesses are asked to get in touch with authorities._

Sherlock fumbled with the remote in time to pause it on the image of the distraught looking mother. His collar. _His collar_.

He scrabbled for his phone and forced himself upright, pushing his hands through the stacks of paper on the desk. There! Lestrade’s number. He punched it into his phone and sent off a text.

_Question the mother._

A reply came within seconds.

_Who is this?_

People asked such stupid questions. He leaned back on the sofa and steepled his fingers under his chin.

His phone rang. He ignored it. God, why were people so damnably dull? It rang again, disturbing his train of thought. He grabbed for it with a growl.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Is that…is that you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly.

“Yes,” he said flatly. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade, “alright. Why are you texting me about questioning the mother? Do you know something about this case? I’m assuming it’s about the case.”

“If people just did what I said without having to _question_ everything,” said Sherlock impatiently, “things would go along much more smoothly.”

He heard a snort on the other end of the line. “I’m sure. But really, what do you know. Do you have any more information?”

Sherlock sat up. “Not without talking to him.”

“The mother?”

“Yes, yes. Who else?”

“What…no! I can’t do that. Look, do you have information or not?”

Sherlock sighed. “The collar of his shirt in the video. Small, dirty fingerprints. Jam, or a similar substance, the prints arranged as if a child had been clutching it.”

“Look, what if it was just an old shirt he’d put on?”

“His hair had been freshly washed to be interviewed. New suit too; he’d forgotten to take the stitching off at the cuff. He wouldn’t have put on an old, dirty shirt. He put on a shirt this morning and subsequently picked up a sticky child. What, Lestrade, do you conclude from that?”

“He…you think he kidnapped his own children? Or staged a kidnapping?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think.”

“And you think that because of a dirty mark on his collar and stitches on his cuffs.”

“ _Yes_ , how much clearer can I be?”

“It’s about as clear as mud,” sighed Lestrade. “Alright. I’ll look into it. And …thanks.”

Sherlock put the phone down and leaned back to gaze sightlessly at the ceiling. A feeling buzzed under his skin, strange and familiar all at once. Addictive. He wanted _more_.

-

After that first time against the wall, quick and desperate, Victor had kissed Sherlock shyly, twisted their fingers together and asked Sherlock to his room.

“Busy,” Sherlock had said, stubbing his cigarette out on the brick. He’d been neglecting a few experiments that needed checking on, and he almost missed the way Victor’s expression crumpled as he turned away. He sighed; even the people he liked were usually idiots.

“Busy _just now_ ,” he clarified, as if the fact Victor’s fingers had been in his body wasn’t enough of an indication of acceptance.

“Oh. Okay,” said Victor, who was smiling again. So easily pleased. Sherlock kissed him again, to please him more, and he found himself having to bite his lip to will down the giddy grin that threatened to spill over his face as he made his way back to his room.

-

Victor didn’t take the suppressants. There were side-effects, he said, infertility in the long term.

“And,” he whispered, hot and furtive in Sherlock’s ear, “I _like_ heat. Do you want to—?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, kissing him. “ _Yes._ ”

Sherlock nosed at Victor’s neck. The scent he was giving off was indescribable and he moaned at every touch, his body vibrating under Sherlock’s hands. He was flushed, hot and damp with sweat, and he gave a soft whine as Sherlock petted curiously at him, at his sides, the soft skin behind his knees.

“Please,” seemed to be all he could articulate. “Please. Please.” Sherlock stripped off his clothes. Spread Victor’s slick thighs and breathed heavily into the dizzying scent of him.

“Sherlock,” Victor whined eventually, “God, you need to. I need,” and Sherlock pointed his fingers and slid them in, and it was so much _wetter_ , so much hotter and he was being grasped at as Victor twisted and choked. Sherlock tucked in his thumb, pushed, and it was so easy, it was so easy for the whole of him to slide so deep and Victor was gasping for breath in little whines, teeth gritted in a lovely grimace.

“Fucking _knot_ me like that. Oh my God. Oh my God, Sherlock, please, please,” and Victor was twisting back and shaking and coming in great shuddering waves that pulsed against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock kept his fingers clenched just inside. Moved his hand in tiny little shoves to make Victor twitch and arch and was so wet he ached with it.

Victor blinked his eyes open. His cheeks were still flushed but the feverish pink was gone and his gaze was mostly clear.

“Keep it in,” he murmured. Sherlock nodded. He was shaking a little, but his hand was steady, and he continued to move it slightly, imitating knotting. Victor sighed and squirmed and soon his eyes were glassy again, fever-bright, and he was moaning and shoving onto Sherlock’s hand.

“You should try it,” he said, afterwards. Sherlock rubbed his fingers together. They felt odd, now, having been inside another person for so long. He thought of Victor, mindlessly begging.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

-

Sherlock’s was engaged in organising his soil samples (Battersea group) when his phone lit up with a text. He ignored it, and poked at a bag of soft red clay. 

The phone was still for several minutes, then began to buzz insistently, gradually inching along the tabletop towards his elbow. He glanced at it, and immediately bolted upright, dropping his clay to fumble at the screen.

“Lestrade, what do you have?”

“Uh...Sherlock? Mr Holmes?”

“ _Obviously_. Do you have something for me or not?”

“I...um, yes.” There was a pause, and Sherlock fought the urge to tell Lestrade to _hurry up_. “Christ, this is embarrassing really,” he continued eventually, “but...I remembered what you did last time. It was ridiculous, frankly. But you were right. You were absolutely right, about every detail, and,” he stopped again, cleared his throat, “I’m stumped. My team is getting nothing. I...I wondered. Shit, this is so unprofessional. Could you...help?”

“Are you _done_?” snapped Sherlock. “Yes. Where? When?”

“Um, I’m at the morgue just now.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” said Sherlock, and hung up.

He put the phone back on the table and stared at his soil samples, feeling an involuntary grin threaten to creep across his face. He resisted the urge to give a little leap as he got to his feet, and suppressed the grin. Coat. Shoes. Taxi. 

_Yes_.

-

Lestrade was waiting for him at the entrance, hunched in an overcoat with a cigarette clenched between his fingers. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in around 30 hours, but he visibly brightened as Sherlock climbed out of the taxi. 

“You came,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and rubbed his gloved hands together.

“Body? Bodies?”

Lestrade looked surprised.

“We’re at the _morgue_ ,” said Sherlock, and Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“I need a coffee,” he said. “Alright. come in, and i’ll let you take a look.”

-

It was easy. It was almost tediously easy, mind-numbingly _obvious_ to anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together, but the look of undisguised admiration on Lestrade’s face had been...nice. He grimaced to himself as he unwound his scarf and hung it carefully on the hook by the door. _Nice_.

The feeling of everything coalescing, though, that moment of clarity, it had been like-

He sat in a flop of coat on the sofa and wet his lips. It had been like that first perfect hit; the needle sliding in. Dragging his tongue along Victor’s neck. His mind had raced, _galloped_ , and, just as suddenly, ground to a screeching halt. A dullard’s pace. It was a maddening tease that had left him hungry, _ravenous_ for more.

He texted Lestrade.

_I need another. SH_

Thirty seconds passed. He tapped his fingers against his mouth impatiently, drummed his feet on the floor. 

The phone stayed silent. Slow! Everyone was so slow, infuriating!

His mind itched, and the soil samples weren’t distraction enough to pull his attention from the neat little morocco case on the mantle. It sat innocuously next to the skull, but there was nothing to pull his attention from it, nothing to relieve the insistent thought that this would be an evening requiring a little… _something_ to ease the mind-numbing tedium of existence.

The air in the room eased as Sherlock made his decision, and with a slow sort of deliberation he stood and approached the fireplace.

-

In sixth form, Sherlock’s teachers finally gave up trying to teach him anything he didn’t want to learn. He attended chemistry, where he had been allowed to set up a rudimentary laboratory along the back benches. The chemistry master, Mr Clement, was an elderly Beta with a shock of white hair like a dandelion gone to seed. He was generally content that Sherlock didn’t explode anything large or particularly flammable, and that he contained noxious smells to the rear of the classroom.

The rest of the time, he spent in his room. On his bedside table was a well thumbed copy of _1001 Poisons and their Antidotes_ ; _in_ his bedside table (the little key hidden carefully between two floorboards), a carefully wrapped collection of true crime pulp novels.

And, of course, there was Victor.

"I can't believe you read this rubbish _for fun_." 

They lay sprawled on Sherlock’s bed, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts balanced on one of his pillows, schoolbags discarded on the floor beside them. Victor was lying on his belly, flipping through _Poisons_ as Sherlock half-dozed on the bed beside him.

"It's not for _fun_. It's knowledge. It's important." 

Victor flicked to hemlock, traced a careless finger over the copperplate etchings and looked down at Sherlock with a wrinkle of his pert little nose. Sherlock stretched over him to pull a cigarette from the pocket of his blazer.

"Such an elegant poison, hemlock." He lit the cigarette and leaned closer, fingertips buzzing with warmth as he took a long drag.

"You do so read it for fun, you weirdo. You should do other things."

Sherlock looked up at him, sly. "I do you."

"Oh, ha ha," said Victor, plucking the cigarette from between Sherlock's fingers. His full lips parted around it with a soft noise, and when he passed it back the filter was slightly damp. Sherlock felt his mouth go suddenly dry.

Clearly despite himself, Victor was becoming engrossed in the book. His eyes flicked back and forth over the pages as Sherlock watched him, the cigarette hanging limp. The hot ash eventually touched his fingers and he dropped it with a start, sweeping it off the bedcovers and onto the floor.

Victor gave a snort as he looked up. “You’re going to burn this place down, one way or another.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Sherlock, sucking at the burn on his finger and watching with satisfaction as Victor’s eyes went dark and liquid.

“I have classes in twenty minutes,” Victor said slowly, sounding like he’d already half forgotten about them as he dropped the book off the side of the bed and spread his legs. _God_. Sherlock hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and pulled until they were sprawled over each other, and Victor was wriggling out of his blazer, and he was _hot_ through the thin white cotton of his school shirt. His fingers wormed their way up under Sherlock’s vest, curious and shifting at the waistband of his trousers and it wasn’t long at all before they were twisted around each other, fingers inside each other, movements frantic and inelegant. 

“Sherlock,” Victor whined. “Just, ah, ah,” and he was grinding down onto Sherlock’s hand, slicking him to the wrist and tipping his head back and Sherlock mouthed carefully at him as the contractions pulsed around his fingers. Set his teeth against a hot vein.

Victor stilled, shivering, and Sherlock hovered blissfully on the edge of coming for several long seconds until Victors fingers twitched gently inside him and he was doubling over, squirming, unable to stop himself from making noise. 

“You’ll still make it,” he murmured, once they had rolled apart. Their uniforms were even more crumpled than before, and now mostly on the floor, but Victor hummed and propped himself on one elbow, sliding the still-wet fingers of his other hand into his mouth. Something contracted in the region of Sherlock’s stomach.

“Suddenly,” Victor sighed, “I haven’t the urge.”

-

Lestrade didn’t bring him cases nearly as often as he needed, but the fact remained that he was bringing them, and that he hadn’t (yet) backed out of what Sherlock thought of as their ‘arrangement’. It wasn’t a complex arrangement. Lestrade brought him the interesting cases, the _fun_ ones; Sherlock solved them. It wasn’t precisely legal, but then again, few interesting things ever were.

Lestrade took to turning up unannounced at Sherlock’s Montague Street flat, first with case files stuffed under his arm, and later with nothing but invitations. To the morgue; to a fresh crime scene; to archives, where Sherlock would whirl in and drink his fill, shine in the spotlight of his own brilliance for, at most, a few hours, before the case would be over and he would be left to drag himself through the muddied existence of ordinary people until the next one, the next one, the next one.

Until one day, Lestrade brought him the most beautiful puzzle. A twin disappearance in mysterious circumstances. A riddle. An ancient, crumbling house full of hidden passageways. It took him three full sleepless days and nights to solve in it’s entirety, dashing back and forth across London, and after he had returned to Montague Street and slept for eighteen hours, he woke up to find his phone buzzing across the floor, and his door being banged almost off its hinges.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade was bellowing outside. “Holmes!”

Sherlock sighed into the sofa cushions as a solid sounding _thump_ reverberated through the floor. _Alphas_.

“I’m alive,” he called, hoping that Lestrade would take the hint and leave him alone to eat, and perhaps sleep a little more. God, he was _ravenous_. And tea. He needed tea.

“Let me in, Sherlock!”

“Go away,” Sherlock snapped. “Busy!” He thought he might have some muffins in the breadbin. Perhaps a little cheese. Eggs, poached. Scrambled. Both. He stretched, something cracking deliciously in his back.

“I’m going to break down the door,” Lestrade was saying. “I thought you were dead! For God’s fucking sake, Sherlock, open up!”

Sherlock sighed, stalked to the door and stuck his head through.

“I am alive. All my limbs are intact, and I have sustained no debilitating injuries. Goodbye.”

He pushed the door firmly, but it bounced off Lestrade’s foot. Lestrade shoved his way into the flat, breathing heavily. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and inhaled deeply, then stepped back, looking appalled. 

“Where,” he croaked, cleared his throat, “where _were_ you?”

Sherlock brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “Asleep,” he said. “In my bed. In my flat. Where I _live_.”

Lestrade stepped forwards again, and Sherlock moved back, tensing.

“I…” said Lestrade, and suddenly he just looked tired. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced sideways at Sherlock. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I just-” and Sherlock was already tired of his ridiculous blustering, of him being where he wasn’t wanted. Interfering with Sherlock’s life when he was already neatly slotted into _work_.

“You just _what?_ ” he spat. “Checking up on me? Checking I’m _alright_?” He waggled his fingers. “Do that with all the people you work with, do you? Or just the Omegas? Poor little Omegas, we can’t really take care of ourselves, have to get a big strong Alpha to come and do it for us because we’re just so weak and helpless. Is that it?”

“No, it’s-”

“Or is it just because you want to fuck me?” Sherlock interrupted, and Lestrade snapped his mouth shut. “It’s interesting, how you thought you could hide it from me, considering what I do for you. What you know I can deduce from the scantest evidence, and the evidence hasn’t exactly been lacking. The lingering looks. Touches. Dilated pupils. You just barged into my house and _scented_ me Lestrade; I am not an idiot. I’m not interested in you, or your big _fucking_ Alpha cock, so either give me a case or get out of my flat.”

Lestrade’s face was a blotchy red. Part mortification, thought Sherlock, with a narrow sort of interest, and part arousal. He resisted the urge to grimace, an act of kindness that Lestrade probably wouldn’t appreciate at all.

“Right,” Lestrade said gruffly, hand clenching by his side. “Right.” And he turned and walked out of the door without another word.

Sherlock went to the kitchen and sliced a muffin in half with relish.

-

Lestrade didn’t come to his flat, the next time. He texted. Kept his distance. Sent some idiotic Detective Sergeant, an Alpha woman with a lot of hair and a disinclination to listen to anything Sherlock said. Sherlock raged at the inefficiency of it all, and couldn’t people just _think_ without their genitals directing their every move? 

With Victor, well. That had been different. Now there was the work, and the work was more important than everything. 

-

If it hadn’t been for the work, he wouldn’t have forgotten. 

It was almost ironic. He could almost laugh about it.

Lestrade, in a pathetically desperate attempt to smooth things over, had found him something _brilliant._ Something so brilliant that he was occupied for over a week. A week! He’d been forced to eat after the third day, but even that hadn’t slowed him down to a noticeable degree. His first serial killer, and it had surpassed all of his expectations. 

The man had wanted to be caught. Wanted to _tease_. Wanted somebody to notice, somebody clever, and Sherlock was very, very clever. The first code had taken him almost two sweating, nervous days to break. No piece of carpet in his flat had been uncovered, paper strewn in the bath, the kitchen sink, taped to every flat surface he could find. The mad dash to the co-ordinates he uncovered revealed another code, another, another until the last had lead him to an unassuming looking laundrette in Bow, and, underneath, a metal-lined bunker. A skinny, sobbing Omega strapped to an autopsy table in the centre. Sherlock had hidden behind the door, buzzing with adrenaline, ignoring Lestrade’s frantic texts to _get out now! get out and wait til we arrive! 5 mins_ and had flattened the killer with a metal bar to the back of the head. 

Fascinated, he’d turned the little man over and studied his slack face as the Omega on the table made stifled little whimpering noises. That’s how Lestrade had found him when he’d burst in, when he’d put his hands all over Sherlock and murmured _thank fuck thank fuck thank fuck_ before Sherlock had eventually managed to bat him away.

-

He woke with his face pressed into his pillow, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains. It was warm, and the air felt thick when he took a huge, gasping gulp of it. He was still wearing all of his clothes, and they itched abominably. He tugged at them until he was blissfully naked and promptly fell asleep again on top of the covers.

Coming awake for the second time happened slowly, like surfacing from deep underwater; he was foggy and oxygen-deprived and hyper-aware of his own body. It was hot hot hot,and he gave a weak moan into the stillness of the room. The sheets felt like thousands of fingers, caressing him, each touch making him twitch, and he wasn’t usually so prone to fanciful metaphor. Oh. _Oh_. He was an idiot. The facts had been staring him in the face all week, adding up into a perfect, horrifying whole, and he hadn’t noticed. He _hadn’t noticed_.

He was back in that classroom, sweating, squirming, mortified for everyone to see. He panted out loud and pressed his face into the cool pillow, opening his mouth to tongue the cottony sheet. Humiliating, how he felt himself spasm at that dry touch of fabric to his lips and the soft, wet insides of his mouth. He throbbed pitifully, tried to think. This, _this_ was why he hadn’t wanted it. The inability to think of anything other than how much he needed something inside him, someone on top of him and pushing him down, it was unbearable and delicious in equal measure. It was going to get worse.

He forced himself to scramble upright off the bed. The air in the room felt cushiony and solid, like it was pressing against him with every movement, and Sherlock paced distractedly for a few moments, tugging on his hair. It felt good. He tugged harder, pulling his neck to a snap, and he felt his knees go out suddenly as he fell to the bed again, mouth falling open, fingers tangled painfully.

“Shit,” he managed, “oh, shit, oh _God_ ,” because now that he was touching himself he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want this, he wanted to do something, solve this. He was _brilliant!_ There had to be something, some way, but his thoughts had become muddled again, distracted. He writhed fretfully against the sheets.

“Ha,” he panted, and his hand was already wriggling down between his legs, he was pulling his knee up with his other arm and slipping his fingers inside, and everything was already so very slick, the feel of it against his fingertips making him twitch. He pushed a little deeper, the muscles in his arms and his thighs burning. Half his hand was in, oh God. He whined, rocking back, and _fuck, fuck_ lost his position, his fingers slipping out all of a sudden. The frustration of it had him choking out a sob into the sheets, he could already feel sweat prickling under his arms, and on his brows. Pressing his legs together just caused him to throb deep and hot, and spreading them was worse. He remembered how Victor had been, a mindless rutting thing, and Sherlock knew that there was no way he’d be able to ride this out on his own. 

There had been a court case last month; he’d watched it on BBC news. An Omega woman, half-delirious with heat, stumbling out onto her front step and being swarmed by a frenzy of rut-blind Alphas. 

He looked at his phone. It had to be now, otherwise it would be too late. It had to be now.

His fumbled for it with slippery fingers, already shaking so much that texting was going to be impossible. He managed to thumb into his contacts and press call before it got too much and he had to slip his fingers back in, _fuck_ , just a little, just to take the edge off.

_“Sherlock?”_

“Lestrade,” he managed, panting.

The voice on the end of the line suddenly became much more intent. _“Sherlock, are you alright? Where are you?”_

“Home,” he gasped out. “Heat, God, _fuck_ , Lestrade. Come here.”

 _“Jesus,”_ said Lestrade, and his voice broke, low and growling. _“Jesus, okay, yeah. Yeah. Just...don’t go anywhere.”_

No danger of that, he thought wildly. He was absolutely certain that if he tried to stand, his legs wouldn’t hold him. Lestrade would come. He would come, and get this over with, and things could go back to normal. 

-

It felt like _hours_. Hours of writhing, sweating agony. His thighs were slick, his sheets soaked, his arm cramping, but he hardly noticed the pain in his shoulder compared to the deep, insistent throbbing in his gut. 

He was vaguely aware of noises downstairs. Someone in the house, he thought, with a detached sort of alarm. Then the smell hit him.

He’d heard Omegas talking about the smell of an Alpha in rut, how it made you delirious with wanting, desperate and dizzy, but he’d always scoffed at the blatant Mills & Boon sensationalism. People didn’t swoon with desire at the scent of their beloved except in _The Untameable Alpha_ , and except, apparently, right now. 

Sherlock moaned, arched his back into nothing, and Lestrade wasn’t even in the room. Wasn’t even up the stairs, and he _knew_ it was Lestrade. That base scent that he’d always found vaguely unsettling out of heat was flooding over him in what felt like waves, hot and electrifying. There was a scrabbling sound at the door.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade growled. “Let me in.”

More scrabbling, and the door was being slammed open and _God_ , Sherlock felt hit over the head by the scent of him. He spread his legs unthinkingly, and Lestrade was on him, all over him, moaning into his hair and pushing his legs up until his thighs were burning.

“Please,” he managed, too desperate to be mortified. “Please.”

Lestrade was still fully dressed, and Sherlock’s knees were brushing against the silky lining of his jacket. His cock was a hot, heavy line under his suit, pressed up against Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock pushed his hips into it.

“Gonna take care of you,” Lestrade was murmuring into his hair, “knot you and fill you up, _god_ Sherlock.”

“You need to-- _Lestrade_ \--” he whined.

“Yeah, yeah, shh,” and he was being gentled, a firm hand on his nape which should have been _hateful_ , it was hateful, except he felt as his knees trembled and relaxed against Lestrade’s sides. Lestrade nuzzled softly against his neck, and that made him jerk, alarmed.

“Don’t! I--don’t.”

“Won’t mark you. Fuck, you smell incredible, shh, I won’t, just let me, let me,” and he couldn’t do anything except lie there surrounded by the solid scent of Lestrade, feeling strangely comforted as he pushed down the sense of utter _wrongness_ that kept threatening to rise up through him.

Lestrade must have unbuttoned his trousers without Sherlock noticing, because when something suddenly slipped inside him he’d almost given up expecting it. He moaned in shock and sudden, excruciating pleasure, fighting to stop his head dropping back. Lestrade was growling steadily into his shoulder.

“You’re _mine_ , Sherlock, fuck, thought about you like this so much.”

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, brought his hands up to cover his ears but Lestrade was quicker, frenzied, and he pinned Sherlock’s arms above his head in a blissfully painful stretch and slid the rest of his cock in in one slow, agonising push.

“God, I love you,” he gasped, and Sherlock choked.

“Just _fuck me_ ,” he snarled, and Lestrade shoved his hips forward, mouth against Sherlock’s neck. 

“ _Yeah,_ breed you, fuck you full up, _Jesus_.” 

Sherlock’s body clenched and unclenched. There was a low swell and pulse inside him, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. He squirmed on it, desperate, and Lestrade was breathing hot into his ear, “knotting you, I’m gonna knot you Sherlock, yeah, yeah,” and Sherlock felt it, suddenly, and it was like a fever breaking. His throat was tight with it, wanting to shout but unable to do more than gape softly as he seized up around the swelling knot inside him, paralyzed, and came all over himself.

Everything was suddenly much slicker and the knot began to slide inside him, moving with the twitching of Lestrade’s hips. It was huge, God, it was so big and so _good_ and Sherlock was shivering all over, held in place by Lestrade’s hands on his trembling hips. They moved slowly together until the knot slipped suddenly out and back in, and Sherlock was shocked into another breathless orgasm, Lestrade swearing and shoving into him as he jerked and whined.

“Mine,” Lestrade was hissing against his shoulder, “mine, God, you’re so good, so fucking sweet,” and then Sherlock felt it, hot and quick, pulsing and the knot was suddenly utterly solid inside him as Lestrade shuddered, sweated, red and gasping.

It felt--

It felt blissful. Awful. The trembling in his thighs slowed. His mind calmed. He no longer felt frantic with need, but Lestrade was _heavy_ , warm and sticky, snuffling into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and resisted the urge to scramble away. They were knotted anyway; it would be half an hour or more before they could separate, and the likelihood was that he’d need to be knotted again before the day was over.

Victor had always needed it twice, sometimes more. Sherlock would kiss him and stroke his hair as he moved his clenched hand slowly, murmuring nonsense in Victor’s ear.

Lestrade’s mouth was damp and hot against his neck. There was the edge of teeth and Sherlock jerked, scrambled with his hands to pull himself out of the way.

“Sorry,” Lestrade growled, not sounding very sorry, “you smell so good, Sherlock. Perfect, I just wanted--”

“If you even think about it, I’ll leave. I’ll find someone else to finish me off,” and oh, that had been a mistake, because Lestrade has pulling back, eyes all pupil and teeth bared.

“No one else,” he snarled, face gone inhuman with startling suddenness, “you’re _mine_.”

He shoved his hips forward viciously and it sent a sweet, hot pulse of want up Sherlock’s spine, made his head loll to the side. Lestrade was there immediately, scenting him, wet tongue dragging. Sherlock’s skin was beginning to prickle, that electrified, zinging feeling from earlier and he groaned softly. He wrenched Lestrade’s head sideways, distracting him with a kiss, distracting himself with the way Lestrade’s knot was beginning to slip in tiny increments in, out, in, teasing at him. Pulling him slowly apart.

“No one else,” Lestrade hissed. “No one.”

“Alright, _ah_ , alright, just--!” and he was being twisted and shoved down onto his face before he could even protest, arse pulled up, fuck, it was so humiliating and so, so good. Lestrade ground into him, pushed sharp sounds out of his open mouth. It was fast, frantic, scrabbling against the sheets, obscenely wet. He was wetter than he could ever remember being; it slicked down his thighs, dripped down the length of his cock. The sheets were soaked and the _smell_ of them in the air was thick, hot. It was the smell of sweat, of animal fucking, and Sherlock let himself be taken, let each spasm after the next wash over him until he couldn’t hold himself up any more, until he collapsed onto the bed with Lestrade still rutting and growling on top of him. 

He drowsed as Lestrade knotted him, the slow pulse inside him oddly comforting, and when he woke in the night, they’d slipped apart. 

 

-

 

_“Sherlock.”_

“Mm?”

A panted breath, and Victor’s fingers slid tangling in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock pulled off and up with a soft, wet sound, licked his tingling mouth. 

“I want,” Victor shuddered, “I want. I want your _teeth_ , I--”

Sherlock stilled. Someone with half of his own observational skills couldn’t mistake what Victor meant, with his neck stretched out swanlike, his hand tugging at the collar of his half-buttoned shirt. Sherlock’s stomach dropped to what felt like his toes, and his mouth ached with a sudden flood of saliva.

“This isn’t,” he began, swallowing hard, “Victor--”

“Sherlock,” said Victor, and his gaze was steady even though the flush on his face was hectic, even though he was gleaming with perspiration. “Please.”

“My hormones, chemically they won’t, it won’t--” Sherlock trailed off awkwardly, but Victor’s hand was at his nape, pulling him down until he was pressed into the sweaty hollow at his throat. 

“I don’t care,” Victor gasped, his throat moving under Sherlock’s mouth. “I don’t care, I want-- _fuck!_ ”

Sherlock moaned as Victor convulsed under him, and it couldn’t work, it wouldn’t, but Victor’s tendons slid shuddering under his teeth, the taste of him was on Sherlock’s tongue and the mere _idea_ of what they were doing had his throat so thick with want he could hardly breathe.

 _Mine_ , a strange, thrilled sort of voice murmured. _Mine_. His hands drifted up Victor’s wrists, over his palms to slide his fingers into the soft gaps between Victor’s. He sucked, greedy. Greedy for more stilted noises, more shifting, squirming underneath him.

“Can you-- _harder?_ ”

Sherlock let his breath huff out his nose, clutched hard at Victor’s hands and bit down carefully. Bit down, worried the skin between his teeth until it was bruised-pink when he pulled back. Victor gave a sigh, manouvered himself carefully underneath Sherlock and, “Oh--!”

They didn’t fuck often like this; neither of them could come from it, but Sherlock was wracked by a full body shiver as his cock slipped in, feeling like he was being pulled apart, searching fingers inside his ribs. He lowered his mouth back to Victor’s neck to nip at the blurred mark he’d left. Curled their damp fingers together and moved his hips slow, slow, lost in the humid heat of their bodies, in the sweet throb of Victor’s pulse against his tongue.

Afterwards, Victor nosed at Sherlock’s neck as they lay curled over each other, breathing close, their fingers still hooked together.

Victor said, “I’m moving.” 

His lips brushed the hairs at Sherlock’s nape.

“Oh,” said Sherlock. His eyes followed a fly scuttling across the curtain. “Of course. America.”

“Yes,” Victor sighed. “You already knew?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lied.

 

-

 

Dawn was just beginning to creep in when Sherlock woke, sticky and aching. He ignored the smell of fresh coffee that nudged at his senses and spent over fifteen minutes in the shower, letting the hot water spill over his bent head and drip drip drip onto his feet.

Suit. Shirt. Shoes. He dressed carefully and made his way into the kitchen, where Lestrade was soft-eyed, soft-mouthed, making omelettes.

“Hey,” Lestrade said, stepping closer. Sherlock stared at him.

“You’re still here. Why are you still here?”

Lestrade fumbled slightly, but he was moving into Sherlock’s personal space, a hand on his elbow, gentle.

“I thought we could...breakfast? There’s omelettes.”

It was early, so it took longer than usual for Sherlock to slowly remove Lestrade’s hand from him, to step away so that they were facing each other over the grubby kitchen table.

“Sherlock, last night, yesterday, I know you didn’t--”

“Stop,” interrupted Sherlock. “Stop before you embarrass yourself.”

“I want you to know that I meant it. I meant what I said,” Lestrade continued doggedly. His ears had gone red and he was looking anywhere but Sherlock’s face. “And...fuck, Sherlock, you were so perfect, you were everything I--it was,” he stopped, chewed on his lip. “I’d take such good care of you. Please, Sherlock, let me, just--”

“Shut. Up.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I said shut up!” Sherlock bellowed, the sound shockingly loud in such a small place. “I asked for your help because I didn’t want to get so far into my own heat that I instigated my own rape, but if you keep talking, i’m going to start wishing I had.”

Lestrade’s mouth flattened into a thin, mortified line.

“‘I’d take such good care of you!’” Sherlock mocked. “Listen to yourself, Lestrade. You want us to live happily ever after? Want me to stay at home and look after the _kids_ while daddy’s at work?” He gave a horrible, hoarse laugh.

“You stuck your cock in me, just like you’ve always wanted to. Congratulations! Now _leave_.”

There was a silence while Lestrade visibly collected himself. He turned to the stove, carefully moved the pan off the heat, then stood facing the wall. 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

He left quickly, going upstairs only to dress, bypassing the kitchen on his way out. When he was gone, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table for a long time, listening to the slow hiss of cooling oil.

 

-

 

“Well, are you opening it?” Victor poked his toe against Sherlock’s knee from where he sat perched on the arm of the settee. A glass of port hung askew between his fingers, the lush, and Sherlock could feel him practically vibrating with nervous anticipation, despite his languid pose. Sherlock was strangely flattered by it, by his obvious excitement on Sherlock’s behalf.

The envelope in his hand was of a mediocre quality. He didn’t know the paper type exactly, and that was another gap in his knowledge, but he didn’t need to know anything about the paper to deduce where the letter had come from. 

_Mr Sherlock Holmes_ , it read.

_Halstead House_  
143 Seal Hollow Road  
Sevenoaks  
Kent 

On the top right, there was a stamped logo; a stylised little portico and three letters: UCL. 

_London_. His heart gave a ridiculous flutter.

He nicked his finger sliding the envelope open, and a thin line of red bloomed along the edge. Little smears dabbed on the smooth white paper. He stared at it, stupidly.

“You got in, of course,” said Victor, sipping delicately on his port and peering close. His mouth was crooked with trying not to smile too widely, and his eyes shone.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, and then Victor was grinning openly, standing and taking Sherlock by the shoulders. They hovered on the edge of embracing, Sherlock utterly aware of the space between them, the warm weight on his shoulders. Victor’s mouth softened, his eyes darting down and back up, and Sherlock watched the movement of his bare throat. 

And suddenly, suddenly they were kissing. Sherlock almost fell forward, letter falling forgotten out of his hand as Victor jerked him close, opening his mouth with a groan. They scrabbled at each other, too frantic to do much more shove and bite, Victor pushing Sherlock against the wall, Sherlock blindly following. He was about two seconds away from wrapping his legs around Victor’s waist when Victor’s hands slid up his arms and he was wrenching himself away, panting.

“Um,” he said. Licked his mouth, took another step backwards, dropping his arms like his strings had been cut.

“We should,” he said hoarsely, and “yeah,” said Sherlock, and they sat on separate chairs. Victor picked up his glass of port with unsteady hands. He looked ridiculous, all of a sudden, kiss-tender mouth and wide eyes making him look about fourteen, gawky and overdressed. Sherlock felt sticky and hot, and the sound of a quietly ticking clock made the silence obtrusive. He shifted slickly in his seat.

“You’ll write to me.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, for-- _Sherlock_. Promise me you’ll write. I’ll leave my address, and we’ll write, and. And we’ll see each other again, It isn’t--it’s not forever.”

“Alright,” said Sherlock. Sun was coming through the windows at an angle, and Sherlock could see dust settling on Victor’s eyelashes. He blinked reflexively. Victor stood, and the dust swirled, eddying around him.

“I have to go. We’re packing, it’s a bit mad, I’m--” he paused to bite his lip, “I’ll miss you. _Write_ to me.”

There was nothing to say, so Sherlock said nothing, but Victor just leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Go to London. Be brilliant.”

“I always am,” said Sherlock.


End file.
